'Twas so the Africans, who had some stay The confusion was such on the death of Dardinello, that it seemed unlikely that any of the infidels would ever make their way back to heathen lands. Marsilius, however, the Ma hometan king of Spain, contrived to place a part of his host in full security. Two thirds are destroyed, and the ruin would have been greater "But that dark night upon the field descended, And hushed all earthly matters, and suspended. "By the Creator haply hastened, who Was moved to pity for the works he made; The blood in torrents ran the country throngh, Flooding the roads, while on the champaign laid Were eighty thousand of the paynim crew, Cut off that day by the destroying blade; Last trooped from caverns, at the midnight hour, Villain and wolf, to spoil them, and devour." The emperor does not return into the city, but encamps the Moorish cantonments, and lights his watch fires. The Pagan fashions his ditch and bastions, and ramparts; but within his tents are fear and grief. The night is one of anxiety and alarm; but Ariosto knows how to relieve his hearers from too intense sympathy. At times he shifts the scene and the subject with more dexterity than the tragic poet, of whose magical power of locomotion Horace tells; at times the more general features of the picture are disregarded, and he dwells on minute and particular detail. The battle scenes are given with a variety greater than that of Homer, and we have now a scene suggested by the Nisus and Euryalus of Virgil; but in which the beauty of the conception-we had almost said of the execution-is greater in Ariosto than in the Roman poet. In our account of the portion of the poem which describes the madness of Orlando, we mentioned Medoro as the favoured lover and the happy husband of Angelica. We did not then tell our readers any thing of Medoro's earlier history. The episode to which we would now direct attention will supply that defect, and show with what skill Ariosto has linked the different parts of his work together. There were two Moors of obscure birth, who had served in Dardinello's company. "These two were posted on a rampart's height Medoro gazed on heaven with sleepy eyes. He turns to Cloridane, the companion of his watch, and tells him of his design to pass through Charles's camp, and seek the dead body of his master in the field of the slain. Cloridane in vain seeks to dissuade him; and when his efforts are unavailing, accompanies his friend, determining to share his fate. "And thus resolved, disposing in their place Slumber with fires extinguished every where. The opportunity is not to be lost, and they slay several of the Franks, whom they find sleeping. Short incidents, characteristic of each of the sleepers who thus meets his death, are touchingly given, with some slight variations of circumstance from the similar scenes in the Æneid. They ap. proach the royal pavilion, but retire in fear, not doubting but that some must be awake among the numbers whose duty it is to keep watch and ward. There was the opportunity of enriching themselves with plunder; and the temptation would have been irresistible, if Medoro's heart, after be was satiated with revenge, had not remembered the sacred object which demanded his first attention. They go on to the field of battle. "There, in the field, 'mid bow and falchion, lay, And shield and spear, in pool of purple stain, "The horrid mixture of the bodies there, Which heaped the plain where roamed these comrades worn, Had not the moon, at young Medoro's prayer, "At the youth's prayer from parted cloud outshone, She circled in her naked arms: with tent, Seen in that gleam, and hill and plain's extent. With these Mount Martyr and Mount Lery's height, * "Succedunt servant que vices Egressi superant fossas noctisque per umbram passim vino somno que per herbam Corpora fusa vident: arrectos littore currus Inter lora rotasque viros." VIRGIL. The moonlight, falling full on the shield of Dardinello, enables them to distinguish his white and red quarterings. They suppress all language of lamentation, lest it should be heard by the enemy, and their pious purpose frustrated. They place the dead body of their master on their shoulders, and hasten from the field. If the prayer of Medoro had any thing to say to the sudden appearance of the moon, the deceitful goddess was scarcely his friend; for the same splendour that showed the object of their search to our heroes, exposed them, as they were leaving the field, to the view of Zerbino and a party of Scots, who were returning to the camp after having passed the greater part of the night in chasing the flying Moors. Zerbino's little troop were cavalry; and Cloridane flies, not doubting that Medoro would follow his example. The poor boy's devotion to his master was stronger than the instinctive love of life; and the horsemen so place themselves as to render escape impossible. "Of old an ancient forest clothed that lair, The poet now tells us, in one of those happy transitional stanzas which have been imitated with such striking effect by Spenser and by Scott, that the prosperous man has little opportunity of distinguishing between true friends and faithless pretenders to the name; nay, the probability is that, were the heart and its emotions seen, and not the expressions which the outward features may be taught to assume, favourites at court should change places in the good opinion of the sovereign, with humble men feeling true attachment to their prince. How ever this be, there can be no doubt of the fidelity of Medoro, whose lord is now dead, and who prefers death to discontinuing the affectionate office of preserving his body for sepulture. Cloridane has now advanced so far before Medoro that he can no longer hear his voice. His heart reproaches him; and he returns to find his friend surrounded by Zerbino's party. He knows not in what way to assist him, but thinks his best course is to sell his own and his friend's life as dearly as he can. "Ambushed, his sharpest arrow to his bow, He shoots another arrow with the same effect, and then discovers himself, and assailing the party with his sword, perishes. Zerbino takes pity on the affectionate Medoro, and is about to grant his request of burying his master's body, when a ruffianly companion of his cuts a dialogue between him and Medoro short, by wounding Zerbino is Medoro with a lance. Medoro is thus left alone, and it would seem to die; but he is not long alone, and death is not his present destiny. "By chance arrived a damsel at the place, Her have I left unsung so long a space, "Sylva fuit late dumis atque ilice nigra Horrida, quam densi complerant undique sentes." The lady who makes her appearance is no other than Angelica-so well known to the readers of epic romance. Angelica heals all his wounds. The cure is effected by the mingled efforts of magic, and chirurgery, and love; and the lady whose love was sought by so many, "baptised and infidel"—who was the admiration of the courts of Europe, and Asia, and Africa-is won by this young knight, who has no other claim than that, which his devoted affection gives. With the assistance of a peasant, whom accident had led thither, Angelica removes the wounded warrior, but not till he has fulfilled his pious duties to his lord; and the solitary retreat to which he is brought is soon taught to echo the name of his mistress. The scene is beautifully painted, and interposes seasonable relief to the reader, who is probably dazzled and confused by the perpetual Of Angelica glitter and din of arms. our readers have heard before, in our accounts of the Innamorato and the Furioso, which, with Tasso, we feel obliged to consider as one poem. We wish that we had time to exhibit proofs of the delight with which Milton read those stories-a knowledge of which is almost necessary, in order to understand many passages of the "Paradise." Most of our readers will remember the wonderful picture in the "Paradise Regained," describing the war of the Parthians against the Scythians. After a description, in which the great poet lavishes imagery derived from a thousand sources, he rests in that which the romance of chivalry had suggested to his youthful imagination, and dwells with affectionate recollection on the Italian poets, and the beautiful creation of their Angelica, whom all beheld with love. NEWMAN ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE. ADVOCATES of the Church of Rome have, of late years, recommended, with much industry and some address, a theory by which they hope to render the novelties of their creed defensible -the theory of "development." They insist that, as their church was designed to endure to the end of time, it must have been endued with power and aptitude to change its aspect as times and circumstances altered; and that the truths of which it was originally appointed the guardian, must also have had within them germs of accommodation to the varied and progressively complicating necessities of human society. Assuming this principle as established or conceded, Roman Catholic controversialists have claimed its protection and support for certain doctrines of their church, which in the light of the present century they dare not attempt to defend by the authority of Scripture, or the evidence of primitive antiquity. We have sometimes noticed arguments of this kind, and felt half provoked to attempt the exposure of them. On reflection, however, we forbore, not from the difficulty of the undertaking, but because, in the writings where we saw them most ably sustained, there appeared to us a spirit of levity, which sported with things in which it had no real faith, rather than a grave and earnest purpose to establish truth; and we thought that serious reasoning employed in the refutation of sophisms so idle and wanton, if it had any other effect than that of being laughed at, could be effective only in giving permanence and a semblance of reality to speculations which should be regarded bus as fantasies of an idle hour. idea that the Romish inventions of times comparatively modern might not merely claim countenance from truths divinely revealed, but were actually part and parcel, and that, too, the best part of those primeval revelations, appeared to us too bold an effort of fancy to be for any length of time regarded as any thing but a startling paradox; and although we saw that certain of our own divines had taken The it up to play with, we thought that they, too, would soon weary of its absurdity, and that we might, without any degree of painful impatience await the hour when it would cease to engage or amuse. We do not regret our forbearance. It is not without its use to let folly have free course until it has "developed its true genius-and such a development we have in Mr. Newman's recent work. Had we the power to protect that gentleman from his lapse into grievous error, we should bitterly regret the not having exerted it; but conscious as we are that our persuasions and arguments could have no influence over a mind like his, we find consolation for his, we would hope temporary, departure from the faith, in the exposure he has been overruled to give, of the nature of those influences or sophistries by which he has been led astray. We We think it necessary to premise, that in our observations on Mr. Newman's argument and conduct, we shall confine ourselves strictly within the limits of his recent revelations. There might be an advantage derived from going back to former works of this versatile and unstable man, and comparing them with his last production. We desire no such advantage. would more gladly take Mr. Newman at his best-in his own showing-in the robes in which he has presented himself for his second baptism; and judge of him by the valedictory volume which comes forth, an apology or an admonition to the Church and faith he was in the act of renouncing or betraying-a tributary offering to the Church before which he desires to lay down the distinguishing prerogative of man, that of exercising the faculties and fulfilling the duties of a being endowed with reason. These latter duties, indeed, do not appear to have been rated highly in Mr. Newman's judgment. It is not very long since he published a retractation of certain charges he had made against the Church of Rome, and which he acknowledges having made, |